Hell House (10 page)
Barrett sat down gingerly. "My bag," he murmured. Edith let go of his arm and hurried to the Spanish table, lifting off the small black bag in which he kept his codeine and first-aid kit. Returning quickly to the bed, she set the bag beside him. Lionel was removing the handkerchief from his thumb with slow, careful movements, his teeth clenched at the pain.
The sight of the deep, blood-oozing cut made Edith hiss. "It's all right," Barrett told her. Reaching into the bag, he took out the first-aid kit and opened it. Removing a packet of sulfa powder, he tore it open. "Would you get me a glass of water, please?"
Edith turned to the bathroom. Barrett drew a box of gauze from the first-aid kit and started to break the seal on its cover. When Edith returned, he handed her the box. "Would you bandage it?" he asked. She nodded, giving him the glass of water. Taking his container of pills from the black bag, he got one out and washed it down.
Edith winced as she started bandaging. "This needs stitches."
"I don't think so." Barrett gritted his teeth, eyes narrowing, as she wrapped the gauze around the thumb. "Make it tight."
When the thumb was bandaged and taped, he eased up his left trouser leg. There was a dark-red burn on the calf. Edith looked at it in dismay. "You have to see a doctor."
"Put some Butesin picrate on it."
She looked at him for several moments indecisively. Then, kneeling beside him, she spread the yellow cream across the burn. Barrett hissed and closed his eyes. "It's all right," he muttered, knowing she was looking at him.
Edith wrapped some gauze around his leg, then helped him lie down. Barrett groaned and shifted onto his left side. "I am one gigantic mass of bruises," he said, trying to make it sound like a joke.
"Lionel, let's go home."
Barrett took another sip of water and handed her the glass. He slumped back on the pillows she had propped behind him. "I'm all right," he said.
"What if it happens again?"
He shook his head. "It won't." He looked at her a moment. "You could go, though."
"
Leave
you here?"
Barrett raised his right hand as though making a pledge. "Believe me, it won't happen again."
"Then why should I leave?"
"I just don't want you hurt."
"You're the one who's hurt."
Barrett chuckled. "That I am. It had to be that way, of course. I'm the one who angered her."
"You're saying"-Edith hesitated-"she did all that?"
"Making use of the power in the room," he said. "Converting it to poltergeist-type phenomena directed at me."
Edith thought about the violence of what had happened. The gigantic table rocking back and forth, then hurled across the floor like an express train. The whipping movement of those massive hanging lamps. "My God," she said.
"I made a mistake," Barrett told her. "I accepted her genial attitude toward me at face value. You can never do that with a medium. You never know what's underneath. It might be absolute hostility, and if it is"-he blew out breath-"by making unconscious use of their power, they can inflict tremendous damage. Especially when that power can be amplified a hundredfold by the kind of energy that fills this house." His smile was grim. "I'll not make that mistake again."
"Is it so important that we stay?" she asked.
Lionel answered quietly. "You know it means everything to me."
Edith nodded, trying to suppress the rise of panic in herself.
Five more days of this
, she thought.
As she paced restlessly, her mind kept going over it again and again. Was Barrett right? She couldn't make herself believe it. Yet the evidence was there. She
had
been furious with him. The poltergeist phenomena
had
been directed primarily at him. Her body
did
feel enervated, as it always did after psychic use.
She turned and crossed her room again. I was angry with him, yes, she thought, but I wouldn't try to hurt him just because our views are different.
No. She wouldn't accept it. She respected Dr. Barrett; loved him as a fellow human being, as a fellow soul. She'd die before she'd harm him. Truly. Truly!
With a faint sob, Florence knelt beside the bed and bowed her head to rest it on tightly clasping hands. Dear God, please help me. Show me the path to follow. I am yours to lead. I consecrate my heart and soul to your exalted works. Dear Lord, I beg you for an answer. Reach down your hand and lift my spirit, help me to walk in your light, along your blessed way.
She looked up suddenly, eyes opened. For several moments she was frozen to the spot, her expression one of indecision. Then a radiant smile pulled back her lips, and standing eagerly, she crossed the room and went into the corridor. She glanced at her wristwatch; they would still be awake. Walking to the door of the Barretts' room, she knocked four times in quick succession.
Edith opened the door. Across her shoulder, Florence could see Dr. Barrett sitting up in bed, his legs beneath the covers.
"May I speak to you?" she asked.
Barrett hesitated, his face drawn with pain.
"I'll only be a moment," she said.
"Very well."
Edith stepped aside, and Florence crossed the room to Barrett's bed. "I know what happened now," she said. "It wasn't me. It was Belasco's son."
Barrett looked at her without response.
"Don't you see? He wants to separate us. Disunited, we are far less of a challenge to him."
Barrett didn't speak.
"Please believe me," Florence said. "I know I'm right. He's trying to turn us against each other." She looked at him with anxious eyes. "If you don't believe me, he'll have succeeded; can't you see that?"
Barrett sighed. "Miss Tanner-"
"I'll sit for you first thing in the morning," she broke in. "You'll see."
"There'll be no further sittings."
Florence stared at him, incredulous. "No further sittings?"
"It isn't necessary."
"But we've barely begun. We can't stop now. We've so much to learn."
"I've learned everything I wish to learn." Barrett was trying to control his temper, but the pain was making it difficult.
"You're cutting me off because of what happened before," Florence objected. "It wasn't my fault. I've told you that."
"Telling me is not convincing me," Barrett answered in a tightly restrained voice. "Now, if you don't mind-"
"Doctor, we can't stop the sittings!"
"I am doing so, Miss Tanner."
"You think it was me who-"
"Not only think it, Miss Tanner, but know it," he interrupted. "Now,
please
, I'm in considerable pain."
"Doctor, I was not responsible! It was Belasco's son!"
"Miss Tanner,
there is no such person!
"
The sharpness of his voice made Florence shrink away from him. "I know you're in pain-" she started faintly.
"Miss Tanner, will you
go?
" he asked through gritted teeth.
"Miss Tanner-" Edith began.
Florence looked around at her. She wanted desperately to convince Barrett, but the look of concern on his wife's face stopped her. She looked back at him. "You're wrong," she said. Turning away, she started for the door. "I'm sorry," she murmured to Edith. "Please forgive me."
She held herself in check until she'd returned to her room. There she sat down on the edge of her bed and started to cry. "You're wrong," she whispered. "Don't you see? You're wrong. You’re
wrong
."
Edith lay on her back, staring at the ceiling. She'd closed her eyes a dozen times, only to open them again in seconds. She couldn't conceive of falling asleep. It seemed an impossibility to her.
She turned her head on the pillow and looked at Lionel. He was heavily asleep. It was no wonder, after what he'd been through. She'd been appalled when she'd helped him undress and put on his pajamas. His entire body was discolored by bruises.
She closed her eyes again, a terrible uneasiness inside her-nervousness with no apparent source. It was probably the house that made her feel it. What in God's name was this power Lionel kept talking about? That it was present was undeniable. What had happened in the dining hall had been terrifying proof of its existence. The thought that Miss Tanner could utilize that power against them was unnerving.
Edith sat up, turning back the bedclothes. Frowning, she slid her feet into her slippers and stood. She wandered across the rug and stopped by the octagonal table, looking at the box in which Lionel kept his manuscript. Abruptly she turned and walked across the room. Stopping in front of the fireplace, she looked inside. There was a low-burning fire, mostly glowing wood coals. She thought of putting on another log, sitting in the rocking chair, and staring at the fire until sleep came. She glanced uneasily at the rocking chair. What would she do if it started moving by itself again?
She rubbed a hand across her face. There was a tingling underneath the skin. She drew in a shaking breath and looked around. She should have brought a book to read. Something light and undemanding. A mystery novel would be good. Better still, some humor; that would be perfect. Some H. Allen Smith or Perelman.
She moved to the cabinet to the right of the fireplace and opened one of its doors. "Oh, good," she murmured. There were shelves of leatherbound volumes inside. None of them were titled. She pulled one out and opened it. It was a treatise on
Conation and Volition
. She frowned and slid it back onto its shelf; drew out another. It was printed in German. "Wonderful." She replaced it on the shelf, pulled out a third book. It dealt with eighteenth-century military tactics. Edith's smile was pained. Water, water everywhere, she thought. Sighing, she pushed the book back onto its shelf and pulled out a larger volume bound in blue leather with gold-edged pages.
The book was false, its center hollowed out. As she opened the cover, a pack of photographs fell out and spilled across the rug. Edith started, almost dropping the book. Her heartbeat quickened as she stared down at the fading photographs.
Swallowing, she stooped and picked one up. A shudder rippled through her flesh. The photograph was of two women in a sexual embrace. All the photographs were pornographic- men and women in a variety of poses. Some of them made it evident that the men and women were performing on the huge round table in the great hall while other men and women sat around the table, watching avidly.
Edith pressed her lips together as she picked up all the photographs and pressed them into a bundle. What an ugly house this is, she thought. She put the photographs into the hollow book and thrust it back onto its shelf. As she closed the cabinet door, she saw, on one of the upper shelves, a decanter of brandy on a silver tray with two small silver cups beside it.
She walked across the room and sat on her bed again. She felt uncomfortable and restless. Why did she have to look in that cabinet? Why, of all the books inside it, did she have to pick out that one?
She lay down on her side and drew her legs up, crossing her arms. She shivered. Cold, she thought. She stared at Lionel. If only she could lie beside him; not for sex, just to feel his warmth.
Not for sex. She closed her eyes, a look of self-reproach on her face. Had she ever wanted sex with him? She made a pained sound. Would she have even married him if he hadn't been twenty years her senior and left virtually impotent by the polio?
Edith twisted on her back and glared up at the ceiling. What's the matter with me, anyway? she thought. Just because my mother told me sex is evil and degrading, do I have to fear it all my life? My mother was a bitter woman, married to an alcoholic woman-chaser. I'm married to another kind of man entirely. I have no reason to feel like this; no reason at all.
She sat up suddenly and looked around in terror.
Someone's watching me again
, she thought. She felt the skin on the back of her neck begin to crawl. Her scalp was covered with an icy tingling. Someone's looking at me, knowing what I feel.
Pushing up, she walked to Lionel's bed and looked at him. She mustn't wake him up; he needed rest. Turning hurriedly, she moved to the octagonal table and dragged its chair beside Lionel's bed. She sat on the chair, and carefully, so as not to wake him, put her hand on his arm. There couldn't be anyone looking at her. There were no such things as ghosts. Lionel had said so; Lionel knew. She closed her eyes. There are no such things as ghosts, she told herself. No one is looking at me. There are no such things as ghosts.
Dear God in heaven, there are no such things as ghosts
.
Fischer broke the seal on the bottle and unscrewed its cap. He poured two inches of bourbon into a glass and set down the bottle. Picking up the glass, he swirled the liquor around. He hadn't had a drink in years. He wondered if it was a mistake to start again. There had been a time when he couldn't stop once he'd started. He didn't want to sink to that again. Especially here.
He took a sip, grimacing as he swallowed. He coughed, and his eyes watered; he rubbed a finger over them. Then he leaned against the cupboard and began to take tiny sips of the bourbon. It felt comfortingly warm as it trickled down his throat and settled in his stomach.
Better thin it down, he thought. He walked around the steam table and over to the sink, where he turned on the cold water. After it had cleared, he held the glass of bourbon underneath the faucet and added an inch of water. That was better. Now the relaxation could come without the danger of his getting drunk.
Fischer lifted himself onto the sink counter and took judicious sips of his drink as he thought about the house. What was it doing this time? he wondered. There
was
a plan; of that he had no doubt. That was the horror of the place. It was not amorphously haunted. Hell House had a method. It worked against invaders systematically. How it did this, no one had ever found out. Until December 1970, he thought, when B. F. Fischer, moving just as systematically-
His right hand twitched so violently as the corridor door was opened that he spilled half his drink across the floor. Florence came into the kitchen, looking harried and exhausted.
"Why aren't you in bed?" she asked.
"Why aren't you?"
"I'm looking for Belasco's son."
He didn't speak.
"You don't think he exists either, do you?"
Fischer didn't know what to say.
"I'll find him," she said, turning away.
Fischer watched her go. He wondered if he should offer to accompany her. He shook his head. Things always happened around her, because she was too open. He didn't want to experience anything more today. He watched her push through the swinging door and disappear into the dining hall. Her footsteps faded. It was still again.
All right, the house, he thought; his plan. Two days had passed. He had the feel of the place now. It was time to start figuring what his approach was going to be. Obviously, it could not consist of working in tandem with Barrett or Florence. He'd have to function on his own. But how?
Fischer sat immobile, staring at the floor. After a while, he took a sip of his drink. It had to be something clever, he thought, something different, something that would circumvent the house's method.
He tapped the fingers of his left hand on the drainboard. Clever. Different. Florence was right about the multiple haunting idea; that much he could agree on. Belasco and a host of others were in this house. How to best them, though?
After several minutes Fischer put the drink down, jumped abruptly to the floor, and started toward the entry hall. A walk around the house, he thought. All by himself this time, without Florence Tanner to distract his train of thought. Those things she'd "felt." Jesus Christ. He shook his head, a mirthless smile on his lips. Those Spiritualists were too damn much.
He was crossing the entry hall when he froze in his tracks, his heartbeat leaping. A figure was drifting down the staircase. Fischer blinked his eyes and squinted, trying to see who or what it was; there were no lights on the stairs.
He started as the figure reached the foot of the steps and started toward the front door. It was Edith in a pair of light blue ski pajamas, her eyes staring straight ahead. Fischer stood motionless as she glided like a wraith across the entry hall and pulled open the front door.
She went outside, and Fischer, starting, ran across the entry hall. He dashed through the open doorway, gasping in shock as he saw that she had disappeared into the mist. He ran across the porch and down the steps, hearing a crackling of frost beneath his tennis shoes as he ran along the path. He saw a blur of movement ahead.
Is it really her?
he thought in sudden horror. Or was he being tricked? He started slowing down, then caught his breath. The figure was headed toward-
"No!" He bolted forward, grabbing. Two emotions flared in him at once-relief that it was flesh and skin he clutched, and fierce elation that he'd thwarted the will of the house. He pulled Edith away from the edge of the tarn. She looked at him without a sign of recognition, eyes like glass.
"Come back inside," he said.
Edith held back stiffly, face expressionless.
"Come on. It's cold out here." He turned her toward the house. "Come on."
Edith began to shiver as he led her. For several frightening moments he thought he'd lost his sense of direction; that they were going to walk into the freezing night to die of exposure. Then he saw, through the swirling mist, the nebulous rectangle of the front doorway, and hurried toward it, one arm around Edith, drawing her along beside him. He led her up the porch steps and into the house, pushing the door shut as they went inside. As quickly as he could, he guided her across the entry hall and into the great hall. Standing Edith before the hearth, he bent over and picked up a log, tossing it onto the coals. He grabbed a poker and jabbed at the log until it caught fire. Tongues of flame leaped upward cracklingly. "There we go," he said. He turned to look at Edith. She was staring at the mantel, her expression taut, unreadable. Fischer turned and looked. There were pornographic carvings on the mantel he hadn't noticed before.
Edith's groan was one of such revulsion that Fischer looked back sharply. She was shivering. He pulled off his sweater and held it out to her. She didn't take it. Her eyes were fixed on his face. "I'm not," she said.
Fischer stiffened as she reached up and began to remove her pajama top. "What are you doing?" he asked. His heartbeat quickened as she pulled the pajama top over her head and dropped it on the floor. Her skin was covered with gooseflesh, but she didn't seem aware of being cold. She started to work the pajama bottoms over her hips. Her blank expression was unnerving. "Stop it," Fischer told her.
She didn't seem to hear. She pushed down hard, and the pajama bottoms slipped down her legs. She stepped out of them and moved toward Fischer. "No," he muttered, as she stepped up close to him. She pressed against him with a moan and slid her arms around his back. She pushed her loins against him. Fischer started as she kissed his neck. She started reaching down to touch him. Fischer pulled back. Edith's eyes were blank. He braced himself and slapped her as hard as he could.
Edith spun around with a gasp and almost fell. Fischer grabbed her arm and pulled her back to her feet. She stared at him in shock. Suddenly she looked down at herself; gasping in horror. She yanked free of his grip so violently that it made her stagger backward. She almost fell again. Regaining her balance, she snatched her pajamas off the floor and held them in front of herself.
"You were walking in your sleep," he told her. "I found you outside, starting to go into the tarn."
She didn't respond. Her eyes were wide with fear. She backed away from him, heading toward the archway.
"Mrs. Barrett, it was the house-"
He broke off as she whirled and ran across the room. He started after her, then stopped and listened. After almost a minute, he heard a door being closed upstairs. His shoulders slumped. Turning, he stared into the fire.
Now the house was getting to her as well.